


Easy as Life

by grumkin_snark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 14:21:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14474544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumkin_snark/pseuds/grumkin_snark
Summary: She is six when she learns of the decree.





	Easy as Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vaznetti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaznetti/gifts).



**i.**

She doesn’t remember much about the Rebellion, only a permeating feeling of terror and how every day Mother seemed a little more worn down, a little angrier. She remembers even less about the time before. Or at least, she tries to. Remembering means the memory of Father’s love, of sitting on his lap and help him seal the letters he wrote, of being perched high on his shoulders or the sound of his voice as he told her a story. Remembering _hurts_...and yet she clings to the memories anyway, refusing to reconcile the man who had made her feel like she was the center of his universe with the man who had left her and started a war, as though she weren’t enough, as though Aegon and _Mother_ weren’t enough.

She _does_ remember when Mother coaxed her out from beneath the bed, Aegon clutched in her arms, and she remembers the gray-eyed man in the doorway.

* * *

  **ii.**

She is six when she learns of the decree.

In place of being killed to protect the Usurper’s claim, Aegon would be sent to the Citadel when he was old enough, and she...she would one day wed a wolf, and as soon as she reached her tenth name day, she would be sent to ward there to learn her future home.

She wails that night, fierce as a wounded dragon while Mother holds her, as warm and constant as the sun. She wants to rage and rage at the injustice, but it is Mother who dissuades her.

“Vengeance will harm only you,” she says. “Our forebears withstood dragons, Rhaenys, and we can withstand this, too. The day will come when we must uphold the bargain, but think naught on it until then.”

And so she doesn’t, as much as she’s able. She lets the hot Dornish sun keep her spirit alive and reflects not on the fact that before long it would not be sand between her toes, but snow.

* * *

  **iii.**

Winterfell is large, much larger than she expected, and colder too. She is bundled up until she is shapeless, yet still she shivers. Mother sits straight and proud on her horse, though, showing no more heed to the weather than she might to a pebble in her shoe. Uncle Lewyn rides beside her, but Rhaenys knows it won’t be for long; the wounds he’d taken on the Trident have left him unable to sit a horse for any extended period of time. He’d survived at least, which is more than can be said for most of the Dornishmen who had been forced to fight for Grandfather, and had been allowed to go home to Dorne, which is more than she can say for Uncle Arthur who had been sentenced to the Wall, by many accounts a fate worse than execution.

They are greeted at the gates by Lord Stark himself, and by the auburn-haired woman at his side whom Rhaenys assumes must be his lady wife. A boy of seven stands at her left, the very image of his mother; Rhaenys ignores him.

Lord Stark bows to Mother as she gracefully dismounts. “Princess Elia, Winterfell welcomes you.” He and Lady Stark repeat the sentiment for the rest in their party, though even at ten, Rhaenys can feel the tension that hangs over them all.

The feast in their honor that evening is filled with unfamiliar tastes, and everything is far too bland for her liking, not a single dragon pepper or sprinkling of saffron in sight. Worst of all, every second that passes is one second closer to the moment when she would be left here, sold off like a prize calf. It’s not Mother’s will, she knows, but that does not much help. She will one day be a Stark, come what may.

* * *

  **iv.**

The sept becomes her refuge. It is not the gods she seeks to be among, but the silence. Though Lady Catelyn had raised her children to worship the Faith as well as the old gods, they seldom visit the sept, and more often than not the days of Catelyn herself are far too full to warrant prayer. Which leaves the sept empty, and within it Rhaenys has found her solace.

Her fate could have been worse, she knows. Nine years in the North has taught her that. She is not one of them, not as a daughter of Dorne and not as a daughter of their fallen crown prince, but they have been kind enough. On occasion, Rhaenys has even found enjoyment. Little Sansa has become her shadow, and Catelyn had more than once provided her with counsel.

Yet for all that, the fact remains that she is not here as a guest, but instead merely to ensure her family’s obedience, and no amount of fine furs or games of come-into-my-castle will change that. Certainly not on today, of all days.

It is childish, granted, to hide here on the morning of Robb’s name day, but he is six-and-ten now and mayhaps if Rhaenys declines to break her fast, she will not have to hear that the final wedding preparations can begin. She’s tried to close her ears to it as much as possible, but there has been no escaping the seamstresses who come to measure her for her dress nor the way Winterfell’s walls seem to get narrower and narrower by the day.

She all but storms into the sept, pausing only to pay her quick respects to the gods, then heads for the spot behind the statue of the Stranger, furthest away from any prying eyes, and pulls her knees up to her chest. She stares at the stone wall as though it is the reason for her unhappiness, and in her distraction she doesn’t realize the doors to the sept have opened anew until she hears the footsteps. They’re too scuffling to be Lord Eddard’s and too heavy to be Lady Catelyn’s or any of the younger children, which leaves but one suspect.

“May I?”

Rhaenys shrugs, but slides a few inches to her left anyway. “Aren’t you supposed to be at breakfast?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Happy name day,” she says, rather than giving him an answer. “I didn’t get you anything.”

“ _There’s_ a shock.”

She casts a perfunctory glare in his direction, suppressing the urge to flick the hair out of his eyes. His mother had been after him for weeks to have it shorn, but he’d so far evaded capture. “Did your mother send you after me?”

“No,” he says.

He’s silent for so long that she raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Are you happy here?” he asks. He hurries on before she has time to think of an answer, “Neither of us chose this betrothal, but...I want to make you happy, Rhaenys.”

He is so earnest that she leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek. “I know you do.”

“Will you let me?”

_Lord and Lady Stark didn’t ask for their marriage either_ , Rhaenys reflects, _and look at them._

Winterfell will never be her home, she knows that in her bones, but she knows Robb even better than her own brother, and gods help her, she trusts him. “Yes,” she says. “I will let you.”

His smile is as bright as the sun.


End file.
